


The Locked Room

by Hopetohell



Series: End of the World [5]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Evisceration, Gore, Injury, Peril, Smut, he should probably be at the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Walker and Hammond take on the Saw universe.
Relationships: August Walker/original character
Series: End of the World [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856770
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

You awake to pain, to the smell of blood, to August’s groans reverberating off the tile. You awake to strangeness, to a line of stitches in your belly. You awake to fear, to the knife in his hand, to the high and shallow breaths your body has started making on its own, trying to avoid a sharp and tearing pain that is simply inescapable.

“I have to,” he says, and you’ve never seen him tremble, never seen him waver, but he does both now. “I’ve got to get it out, and you have got to be still.“

And there’s blood on his shirt, a line of rusting red. “You too, huh?“ you ask and it’s supposed to be levity, supposed to help. But his nod is serious and sharp, and his movements curl around the cut on his belly, trying to cushion it from more hurt.

You try to breathe through it when he cuts the stitches, knife not nearly sharp enough and it pulls, it _tears._ You try to breathe but it comes out in a gasp and a tiny, wet and wondering _oh._ August doesn’t seem to breathe at all. He’s counting instead, and what does he know that you don’t? And even with the stitches open the wound isn’t wide enough; it doesn’t fit his hand and he has to cut more. 

A memory: a pair of bodies in the news, one burst open, the other shredded from the outside in. “Gross,” you’d muttered, and changed the channel. 

Oh. 

His hand is digging around somewhere by your small intestine, and he’s almost crying “please, please don’t move. Please, I’m trying—“ but how can you help but move; how can you help but curl around the pain? And so he shuffles to sit on your thighs, rotating his body around the arm buried inside you, his other arm pressing down on your chest as hard as he can manage. Not as hard as he should; fresh blood is blooming through his shirt and he is sweating. 

It’s a strange hurt, like the worst cramps you’ve ever had, radiating out til it gets close to your skin, where it becomes fire and cold. It is everything, all-encompassing, such that you nearly miss the withdrawal of his hand, pulling the wound even wider because now he’s clutching at something. It’s all wires and electrical tape and a little flickering LED display. 

It’s amateurish, bored-kids-in-shop-class level construction, but it’s packed with enough explosives to tear you open, to bury your teeth in the walls. And with your lights dimming he has to leave you while he pulls the thing apart, has to ball up his shirt and press it over the wound and beg you to “just hold this, come on, you’ve got it, it’s almost over.”

Dimly, you hear him cursing, but. He’s far away, and you’re cold, and the current takes you under. 

But you come back. 

You come back just in time to see August plunge the knife into his belly, careless, popping stitches. His hands shake and his shoulders shake and he is all over unsteady. He keeps looking up at you as he roots around inside himself, like he’s hollowing a fucking Jack-o-lantern. He’s red to the elbow and some of that belongs to you but you’ll never get it back, will you? His breath is shallow and you can hear the tremor in it, the wince and quiet _unh_ as he touches something strange inside himself. He needs help but you can’t reach him; you try to brace your feet against the floor but they just slide away bonelessly. So you watch, as he finds something; his fist makes a wriggling bump under his skin as he pulls it out. 

It’s a key. Of course it’s a key. It’s wet and slippery and he nearly drops it, fumbles it into his fist as he’s doing his damnedest to climb to his feet, to lift and carry you but for all his strength he can’t do it. He falls to his knees and hugs his middle, trying to keep himself together. 

And he’s trying again, slipping and sliding in his own blood, crawling on his knees and one clenched fist toward the door while his other hand is fisted near his navel. He reaches for the doorknob once, twice. On the third try he turns the knob, and as the door creaks open sunlight pours in through the crack. He falls, and he does not get up again. If you stretch your arm out you can just barely brush his leg with your fingertips, and so you do, feeling the faint thrum of blood in the vein at his ankle. You shiver, and watch his shoulders shake. For a long moment there is silence. 

And then. His voice, quiet, rasping. “Are you ready?“

And what else is there to do but grit out, “yeah.“


	2. Chapter 2

Look at him, dragging himself down the hallway by his fingernails, his other hand stuffed into the gash on his belly. He’s leaving little pearls of fat behind, drips and spatters of blood, shreds of skin where he rubs against the rough concrete. _God,_ it’s good, seeing him stripped bare like this, peeled back to pure animal instinct. 

You follow along in his trail, and yeah, okay, you’re probably better off than he is because when he went digging for the bomb in your belly he was careful in a way he wasn’t with himself. And there’s that song in your blood, that high and desperate _how in the fuck are we alive_ , that plays against the burning and tearing, the way the margins of your wound drag and pull against the ground, the way you pulse with adrenaline and pain. And you’re alive, somehow, and as you crawl you assess and realize _hey. Maybe it’ll be alright_. You almost smile a little, drunk on a near-miss. 

And when he twists to look back, when he turns and looks at you down the length of his red-streaked belly to make sure you’re following, he’s hard, somehow, what little blood he has left firing right to his cock. He sees you, sees the expression on your face, and he lifts a brow. Just a little. 

_Interesting._

He falls through a doorway into a storage closet, old cardboard cartons lining the walls and everything coated in a thick layer of dust. August slithers across the floor until he can haul himself up half-sitting against the wall, where he sits with his face tight with pain and his eyes. 

His eyes. _Oh love, you are a marvel._

And when he says _please, I need, I need,_ you’re already there with your _yeah I know,_ your _carefully, yeah?_ as you’re drawing him free, as you’re grabbing your belly tight to hold yourself together, as you’re rising to your knees with a grunt. 

When you sink onto him it’s too fast, too soon; he’s all slicked with the blood that coats him navel to knees and soon yours joins it, falling in runnels and rivulets between your fingers, down your belly. And when he licks at the blank space where your fourth finger used to be it’s _electric,_ nerve impulses tangling and twisting around the pain until it feels like every time he’s had his mouth on you, and it shouldn’t be possible but you come so fast it shocks the breath out of you. 

_Jesus, already?_ he’s asking, but it’s awe more than anything. And you’d like to bite him for it, nip the smugness from his face because how could he even _be_ smug at a time like this, but his hands are reaching to cup your face, to lick sweetly into you. He shares back your taste, coppery and hot, still twitching his hips up minutely because he’s too weak for anything else. He’s consumed with the need for closeness, the drive to bury himself inside you in any way he can. 

But. 

He cups your face in his hands and there’s nothing holding him together anymore. And you look down to see parts of him wet and ropy, the most secret parts of him that should never see daylight. He sees it, he sees it, and he judders to a halt inside you; his pupils are huge and his breath comes in sharp bursts. And oh,

_Love,_

What a wonderful gift, this little death in the midst of blood and chaos. And he is terrified, he is shivering, he is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

And it’s no small thing, extricating yourself, falling onto your back on the floor where you wriggle like a worm, where you tip boxes over til you find a roll of dusty duct tape. Somehow, together, you shove his intestines back inside and _easy, love, just til we reach the hospital,_ you wind duct tape around his middle til he’s swathed with it, and with his hands free he can help you sit up enough to cover your wounds as well. And there, in that room, filthy and with little hisses of pain winding between your teeth as desperation recedes, you catch your breath and prepare to move.


End file.
